2014.07.25 - Les Diables, Bleu et Blanc
The Brotherhood headquarters in Staten Island hasn't seen a lot of use until just recently, when Mystique decided to snap it up for her own group. She's still wary of the name 'Brotherhood,' which has a lot of history she's not sure she wants to burden her group with, but other people tend to assume that a revival of that group is exactly her goal. The hideout itself, however, is conveniently placed for the Morlock tunnels and New York itself, well hidden, and has all the necessities for planning crimes and terrorist attacks. Hard to pass up. At the moment, she's wearing her blue form and a comfortable black outfit with a punk edge to its design. She sprawls across a couple of chairs in front of a computer terminal, watching financial reports with a thoughtful expression, and occasionally clicking through to examine something more closely. An advantage of being a world-class thief: Never having to ring the doorbell. The old Brotherhood headquarters was beyond state of the art in its day, but its day was a few years ago. With the gutting, the abandonment, and the general disrepair, Gambit has no trouble getting inside unannounced. How he manages it is a strictly-guarded trade secret, but one minute he wasn't in the HQ, and the next he is. But why sneak into the underground headquarters at all? The unscrupulous Cajun's motives are, as always, his own. Perhaps he snuck in simply to make sure that he could. Perhaps he wanted to keep his skills sharp. Perhaps he was merely exercising caution. But the most likely reason is obviated as he slowly creeps up behind the iconically blue-skinned mutant, his approach slightly off to the side to avoid getting caught by the reflective computer monitor. His footsteps are all but silent as he stalks his prey. He somehow keeps his clothing from rustling as he inches ever closer. And then, when he's almost close enough to smell, he says in his low, drawling, French-tinged redneck accent. "That's the most borin' porn I've ever seen." At the sudden voice, Mystique becomes a blur. It's truly unclear whether she whirls around faster than the eye can follow, or actually morphs into an inverted version of herself. Regardless, the end result is that she's facing him over her chair back and pressing a knife to his throat. (Where the hell did she even get a knife?) To put it simply: the most obvious reason to startle Mystique is a death wish. She stays her hand when she recognizes Gambit -- not to mention the game he's playing. She holds the threatening pose for a handful of seconds, then whips the knife around and stows in in a boot sheath she morphed only a second before. "Point to you," she says, grudgingly adopting an amused smirk. "I didn't know you still had the keys." A veiled dig at his thieving skills? Perhaps. She doesn't bother to switch her screen off as she stands fluidly and faces him. "Need anything?" There are only two possible explanations for the casual, self-satisfied smirk on Gambit's face. Either he is used to having knives pressed to his throat (very likely), or he was expecting a similar reaction from the infamously unpredictable shapeshifter (also likely). But regardless of the reason, he does a pretty good job of neither flinching nor acting worried. He does, however, look a bit more relaxed when the knife is removed, no matter how gross the manner of its disappearance might be. "I always need something, cher. But I doubt you were offering anything I might be interested in. And I definitely doubt that there's a bottle of Remy Martin stashed away somewhere in this fancy cave of yours that smells so much like moldy feet." "You might want to bring a fan down here or something, air it out a bit. Because... damn." "Save it for Yelp," Mystique answers dryly. She doesn't seem particularly distressed by the barb. "Our drink selection, however, is top notch. You don't think I would send ALL of that money overseas, do you?" It can be a little unsettling to watch her adjust her morphed outfits on the fly, but just in case the thief has kept his appetite intact, she makes her way through the cavernous hideaway to a makeshift bar and lounge. "Let's see... cognac, cognac... here we go." She retrieves the bottle and a pair of glasses with stubby stems -- they're even the right shape. Either the two of them have similar taste in beverages, or she prepared to host him specifically. Certainly, she's not going to tell. She sets the glasses down on a table and pours. "Sort of brings you back, seeing this place again, doesn't it?" she asks. "So, tell me, what is this that you're interested in, that I'm so certain not to have for you? I'm a woman who likes to know her own shortcomings before my enemies do." You never know what you can shake loose until you ask. Gambit casts critical glances at the hideout, but any criticisms he might have about the 'renovation' are squashed by his eagerness to have a drink. One of these days he's really going to have to get some less predictable habits. He stands on the opposite side of what is serving as a bar for now, running one of his fingerless gloved hands over the surface. His hand jerks back suddenly as one of his fingers catches a splinter. Fortunately, it didn't embed in his finger, as a quick glance confirms. Still, he accepts the glass with the opposite hand. "You know, you've already proven me wrong once in less than five minutes. So hopefully you won't think me ungracious, but I'll quit while I'm ahead." "Besides, if we get rid of all your shortcomings, what'll you need Ol' Gambit for?" Mystique gives the Cajun a sly smile. "Oh, I'm sure I can find a use for you." She lifts one eyebrow as she takes a sip of her own drink. Once she's finished, she teases, "To start with, you seem to be agitating for a redecorating job. I'm happy to defer to your greater expertise with interior design." She leans forward over the bar and elaborates in a conspiratorial tone, "The budget could be very, very generous. Which I suspect is what you're really interested in, charm notwithstanding." After downing the majority of his cognac with a slow, appraising sip, the red-eyed mutant glares over the rim of his glass. "I see what's going on here. You see an old picture of a pink outfit I wore in the nineties, and suddenly I'm qualified to turn your dank basement into a reception area for your sweet sixteen." Despite his attempts to remain deadpan, a bit of warmth creeps into his voice as the sentence draws on and the corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. The warm tone to his voice can probably be explained away by the cognac, but the slowly-encroaching smile is genuine. "I hate to turn you down twice tonight, but there's no amount of money that's going to tempt me to put up drywall." "Damn," Mystique says with a grin, leaning forward against the bar and toying with her own glass. "You realize that I'm mostly working with teenagers, right? If I get one of them to do it, it's going to be all band posters and half-naked models on beaches." The very thought drives her to take another drink. "I may be able to morph a nose that doesn't work, but I need my eyes." She laughs and, in less time than it takes to tell, she's wearing a version of the pink uniform Remy just described -- the chestplate has been replaced by a patterned choker, and the neckline takes a daring dip, but it's otherwise pretty much identical. "And if I may offer some advice: own your missteps, frère. You'll find they're not as bad as you think." He was in the middle of lifting his glass to his mouth when his relatively-gracious hostess suddenly switched outfits in front of him. The net result is that he stares, misses his mouth with his glass, and a bit of cognac dribbles down his scruffy chin. He covers it fairly well, quickly wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his well-worn and dirty trenchcoat. "Damn girl! Maybe I ought to drag the old body armor out of mothballs. Apparently I looked really hot in it." Sure, she got some details wrong, but judging by his enthusiasm she'd probably take first prize in a Gambit Cosplay competition. "I'm not sure if you're trying to flirt with me or creep me out, but I think I need three or four more drinks." "What can I say? It's a line I like to toe from time to time," Mystique answers with a puckish smirk, obligingly refilling his glass. "It's certainly one way to keep people off-balance." She sets the bottle back down on the weathered bartop, then knocks back a bit more of her own drink. She appears to be about half a glass behind the Cajun thief. "Either way, I'm glad you approve." She looks him over for several seconds, then comments, "I must say, I wonder what brings you here. Are you reconsidering your split-the-difference approach?" She cocks one eyebrow. "I don't think His Holiness would hold it against you if you took a more active role in my little venture." She's referring disparagingly to Magneto, but her tone is a lot more teasing and less vindictive toward the Imperator than it was at the height of their falling-out. "Not that I would be upset if you did just come here to flirt, of course," she adds. "Oh, here we go. I should have known this was going to come up." Gambit pours himself another drink, but leaves it on the table. Truth be told, he doesn't seem overly interested in getting drunk. Being drunk in front of Mystique can't be good for one's life expectancy, no matter what her intentions might be. "You two can play your little power games all you want. I'm just a contractor, I don't get involved in politics. Hell, I'm Switzerland and there's nothing you're going to be able to do to make me stop straddling the fence." "Although I've got to admit, Magneto never puts on special outfits for me..." Mystique folds her hands in front of her and shrugs, still smiling. "You can't blame me for asking, can you?" she says lightly. "In fact, I can respect your position. You should have seen me during the Cold War." She smiles fondly at the memory of some particularly exciting double-cross before continuing, "Frankly, I'm less interested in playing power games with Erik than most people seem to assume. It's his interest in dick-measuring contests with world leaders that caused us to part ways in the first place." She dismisses that line of thought with an airy wave of her hand. "If you feel that committing to me would constitute a political move, by all means, stick to that fence." She smiles, raising her glass for a final sip before it's empty. "I just thought you might find it fun." "Ugh..." For a second, the sketchy mutant looks genuinely exasperated. He places both hands on the makeshift bar, leaning forward and resting some of his weight on his hands. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to help out around here a bit more. It's in the best interests of mutants everywhere for the Brotherhood to be active. And I guess it's in the best interests of Genosha to have a highly effective pro-mutant network functioning right here in the States. But..." He leans back again, and lifts his drink up to his lips almost reflexively. After the glass is placed back down, he elaborates on the 'but.' "We have this expression where I'm from. I forget most of it, but the gist is... Well... I forget the gist too. But basically it's about how making deals with the devil ends up making you the misère. In this scenario, you'd be the devil, and I'm just the poor boy from Louisiana who's about to get in over his head." "I'm not making any deals, and I'm not making any promises. But if you need a few favors stateside, I /guess/ I can help out from time to time. A bit more than I've been, anyway." It's a rambling, disconnected way of accepting the vague offer that Mystique made, but Gambit seems more relaxed after saying his piece. ] Mystique is happy to let Gambit meander to his conclusion, refilling her glass and occasionally sipping from it as she listens. When he does finish, she nods her acceptance. "That's fine. You're not beholden to me. That isn't how I'm running this operation. You do the work; you get paid. That's the extent of it." She gives him a sly smirk as she wraps her hands around her glass and adds, "Although I'd be lying if I said I hadn't heard the 'deal with the devil' comparison before. Truth be told, I know more about deals with the devil than most. Certainly enough not to buy that 'poor boy from Louisiana' line." "If it makes you feel better, though, this deal can cut both ways," she adds. "You need help with something? Some big target that you can't manage alone? Someone on your back who needs to be put in their place? Call me. I'll see what I can do." "Well, now that I've sold whatever is left of my soul to a woman who lives in a cave, I should probably get going." Gambit takes a step back from the bar, and adjusts the lapels of his coat. "I've still got to secure your shipment before I go to sleep, and if I have too much to drink I might try to show you my version of a Mystique costume." From inside his coat he pulls out his trusty pack of Gauloises, taking out a single cigarette before repocketing the rest of the pack. "Tell the kids Uncle Gambit said hi, will you?" Mystique grins, setting her drink down and standing up straight. Her outfit morphs a second time, to what some might consider her own 'classic' outfit: white dress, skull belt, thigh highs. "Will do. And I can't wait to see what you do with this source material. Safe travels, Remy." Category:Log